


Eyes Meet Eyes

by aliitvodeson



Category: Elfquest, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliitvodeson/pseuds/aliitvodeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a dying thing, to have a soulname. Something left in the dark ages of man's tortured past. But John looks at the mirror and thinks a name he dares not voice and sometimes he thinks that maybe, just maybe, there's someone else out there thinking a name as well, and it goes together for them. He doesn't tell Sherlock. He hints to Greg. He panics when a voice at the pool sounds like the one he imagined thinking back all those years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Meet Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to BBC Sherlock.  
> Soulnamr, recognition, lifemates - all that fancy stuff belongs to Elfquest and the wonderful Peni's who made it. Seriously, go read their stuff. It's amazing.  
> I haven't written Sherlock stuff in ages, so please be kind.

There are certain people who walk among us with a deeply guarded secret. They look like us, they talk like us, and in nearly every way they are us. But they have a second, private self that they keep closely guarded, a secret to nearly all but themselves.  
I refer, of course, to the those who possess a soul name; a private name that refers to all that they are.  
Soul names have always been a rare thing for the human race. In pre-european native american societies, for instance, soul names were viewed as a blessing from the great spirit and those who had them revered as one who spoke for the spirits. Many today doubt the existence of soul names; it is very hard to prove that they do in fact, exist.  
Less rare and more universally acknowledged as existing is the art of sending; telepathy that can be reached by those both with a soul name and without, though it comes more readily to those with soul names.  
Sending takes two forms; open, which can be overheard by any in the range of the sending, and deep, which can only be heard by one but must reach out to through the use of a soul name.  
Many papers have been written on the subject of soul names and sending. I recommend Doyle's 'The Forgotten Secret' for those looking for an introduction to the subject. Rather, I intend to explain the history and study behind recognition; a second, more personal aspect of soul names. Recognition has been described as the joining of two souls, where one learns the entity of the other person's being. It is said that Jonathan and David knew each other as "brothers in all but blood, the exchange of souls so deep." Accounts from the time tell us that Joseph loved the virgin Mary as only two lifemates could.  
\--- Excerpt from 'A Treatise On Recognition' by Victor Trevor.

Soul meets soul when eyes meet eyes; lifemates, recognized  
\--- Traditional poem

In the deep private of his thoughts, he had another name. He had known this in the solid clarity of absolution since he was fifeteen years old, and looked at the mirror in search of who he was. There is no questioning it, no wondering at the strange feeling of the name or why he had one when it was a dying thought in modern times. He simply takes his name and leaves it in his mind, a quiet thought for some far off day.  
When he is dying, when he thinks the blackness is going to hold him forever, the name comes to him again. He fights to push it down, but the medics are fighting to keep him awake, and both struggles can not be undertaken at once. Someone grabs his hand, holds on tight, asks him who he is. And John, gasping, unseeing, says the name without thinking it.  
Later, when he is not dying, and the nurse holds the door open for the Major, John only has to look at his face to know that the remembrance of giving that name is not a fever dream after all. Major Sholto, sits beside the bed and assures John that none of the medics heard, that he does not need worry about the name being spread around. James was friendly enough before this, but John can't help but see the stiffness in his face now.  
It is an uncomfortable burden for them both.  
When he meets Sherlock, he thinks almost that the detective will see it on him. But Sherlock, in a later argument with Lestrade, dismisses the idea of soul names, saying that it's an ancient superstition that humanity is better off without. Greg's frown deepens, and John feels that he is the one seeing things the other can't, a strange reversal of their usual roles. He wonders if Greg has found his match yet, or if there are two names still un-matched in the world.  
It is another argument that leads John to storm out of the flat, and right into the sedative filled syringe of Moriarty's hired man. He wakes up alone, already dressed in the coat and bomb, shivering when the irish voice fills his ear with just what he has to say. Sherlock gives John a look of such incredible hurt when their eyes meet, and John can only be grateful that there had been no exchange of names for them, for he never would have been able to follow the words Moriarty gives him if it was his soulmate he was hurting like that.  
John grabs Moriarty without thinking, takes him and yells for Sherlock to run. And it is not merely the laser on Sherlock's chest that makes him let go, but also the pounding name in his head when Moriarty twists his head and their eyes meet. Moriarty gives John a smirk as he walks out, as if he already knows. John spends the rest of the night bracing himself for pain without a source.  
It never comes.  
The next three days are filled with many possible cases cases, but no mention of Moriarty. Mrs. Hudson brings groceries, and John finds himself staring at them with no desire to eat. If Sherlock takes any notice, he does not say anything. The name in John's head that is not his refuses to go away.  
Sherlock is out when Mycroft comes to the flat. And though John tries to get him to leave, Mycroft sits down on the couch and stares at John. "I don't think I need to tell you how dangerous this will be, Doctor Watson." He knows, John thinks, and thinks with a pounding heart, and it is all he can do to nod. "Still, it would not do for my brother to lose you. He has grown rather fond of your company." It's a very large shift from the last time John spoke to him alone, and the memory brings a weak smile onto his face. "Do take care."  
He watches Mycroft leave from the kitchen window, the black car peeling out into traffic. No sooners had the government man left, than someone knocks on the door then steps back, grinning up at John. He hears the odd name pounding once more in his head, accompanied with a quiet voice, almost mocking him with it's cheery lilt. "Come out and play, Johnny boy."  
He grabs his coat off the hook.  
The streets are nearly deserted, and the figure easy to follow down through London. He never quite catches up, and any calls he makes, verbal or otherwise, go unanswered, and John is certain in the way he knows his own name that it is Moriarty, leads him to an apartment building. At first, he is confused, for the elevator doors close before he gets in, and there is no display of floor number above. And then the bulking blond behind the security desk tells him, "floor 12," and the other elevator doors open.  
Jim Moriarty is waiting inside the flat, a glass of wine in his hand and dressed in the same dark suit he wore at the pool. Jon hulps, and closes the door behind him. Jim is smirking, but the smile does not reach his eyes.  
"How are we going about this, Johnny boy," he asks, at the same moment that John says, "you could have just texted me you know."  
It is Jim who laughs, and pours John a glass of wine, and guides him down to the couch, a teasing smile on his lips. John can't help but pull away from the hand that touches his knee when they are both seated, and Jim repositions himself so there is a more respectable space, earning a grateful nod from John. "Does Sherlock know you're here," Jim asks, a knowing smile on his face before John can even answer. "Of course he doesn't. But big brother does, so I'd better be careful with you."  
"I would think you'd do that anyways."  
"Ah, but with the ice man watching I have to keep you in one piece. Can't break borrowed toys." Moriarty's dark eyes were gleaming, and John pushed off the urge to run from them.  
"We can't get married. Or live together. Just relieve the bond."  
If he hadn't been staring at Jim's face so determinedly, he would have missed the flash of annoyance that crossed the criminal's face. As it was, he couldn't be sure, just sure of what had brought it about. The cheerful expression was back in place almost immediately, so fast that it was like it had never left. "Of course, Johnny boy. Of course."  
John sets his wine glass on the side table as Jim guided him to the darkened bedroom, his dark eyes on John's face as they both stripped and left their clothes in two messy piles on the floor.  
This was no great joining. They hardly spoke, just grunts and moans of pleasure as their bodies found what they needed. At the beginning John felt Jim's lilting voice pressing against mind, asking for entrance with sweetness and dancing around the edges of his awareness when he didn't give it. That pressure died away as he continued to refuse to rise and meet it. While their bodies might engage in the sexual relief that their soulmate bond demanded, each mind remained it's own.  
When it was over, John rested his head on Jim's lap, and the criminal brushed his fingers through the blond hair.  
"Are you sure?" Jim's question is soft and gentle, and John somehow knows that he was still referring to the last exchange of words.  
"I can't," he said softly, closing his eyes rather than look at Jim. "You're Sherlock's enemy. You're a criminal."  
Underneath his ear, Jim's chest stopped moving for a second. "We could work something out, I'm sure."  
"No."  
And John pulled himself away, going to the pile of clothes he had made earlier, dressing with his back to Jim and his eyes on the empty darkness of the bedroom door. He could feel Jim's stare on his back, though the other man waited until he had finished dressing before he spoke further. "Would you let me say it? Just this once?"  
John turned around, looked at the dark outline of the man, who was leaning forward off the bed. He could almost imagine the manic look that would be on that face, even if he couldn't see it. The same look that had been there that night at the pool, when Jim had looked at Sherlock in unabashed glee. He nods, and hears Jim's almost whisper, and feels a wave of pleasure pass through his mind.  
He returned to Baker Street in the gloom of the early morning, the half mist off the Thames forming a strange company to his thoughts. Sherlock would know, John realized, and what the detective would say he could probably imagine. He would rant about the folly of ordinary minds, and how John had no control over his body.  
Despite the early hour (and this should really stop surprising John), Sherlock is sitting in the living room when he gets home. "You did it then."  
"Yes," he tells him, and goes to make tea.  
John occasionally feels things coming across the bond after that. Bursts of anger, light trembles of pleasure. He can never really tie them to anything involved in Sherlock's cases, even if the detective mentions Moriarty still being involved in the creation of certain crimes. After that first dull mention of what he had done to close off the pounding thoughts in his brain, Sherlock had ignored John and his soulmate issue, as Mycroft called it. John was grateful for the silence, even if he did suspect that it stemmed more from Sherlock's disbelief in recognition than anything else. Slowly, he stopped flinching whenever the emotions spilled over. When Greg found his soulmate, John took him out from drinks and raised a glass to, "recognition, and those who said it couldn't happen." Greg looked at him a little funnily (something about his eyes and the disbelief that John had founds his soulmate). John knew the rumours, of course, that it was him and Sherlock as a pair. Sally had just about said as much the night Sherlock first brought him to a crime scene.  
He didn't feel a thing through the entire court case, not even when Jim turned around and smiled smugly at him.  
The pain hit him when he was still in the cab. Pain, bursting through his body like never before, ripping to his core. He couldn't see, couldn't hear for the agonized scream that came out of his mouth. The cab stopped, and he still couldn't think enough to tell the driver that it wasn't him in agony, it was Jim. Jim who was dying, Jim who was suffering. The cab door opened, and someone slid into the vehicle next to him even as the car started forward once more.  
"I'm sorry about this, Doctor Watson, truly I am."  
From somewhere beneath the pain, John recognized the man who had been at Jim's flat that night. "You." His voice was weak, his eyes struggled to focus. He raised his hands; the man put his own around John's wrists.  
"Don't worry, Doctor Watson. I'm not here to hurt you. Jim sent me."  
"Jim's dead." The bond snapped in John's mind, the last thread that tied him to Jim unravelling under all that pain, and then it's gone, it's over, there's nothing left to scream about, but the screaming in his mind continues.  
"Yes."  
They rode in silence after that, even after the pain melted away and John could see straight again. They headed out of London, and John didn't protest. He had no idea what Sherlock was doing, why there had been no emergency with Mrs. Hudson. His companion played with his phone, and John stared out of the window without seeing any of it. Night slowly fell, and still they drove on. North, John thinks, when he finally bothers to think about it.  
"Where are you taking me," he asked, as the cab took them through the empty darkness.  
"Jim wanted you kept safe. He's got a house for you out here."  
"Why," John asks, and receives only a stoic look in reply. He can accept that.  
When they do come to the house, John is ushered inside, the door closed behind him. For a moment, it seems as if he has been left here alone; then the cab drives off and he once more has the mountain of a man for company. "Your room," and a door at the end of the hallway is pointed at. "Kitchen, gym, my room."  
"So we're housemates."  
"Yes."  
"Can I at least have your name?"  
A quirked mouth, the brief flash of something friendly in the man's eyes, and then he's turning into the room that he's already identified as his own. "Sebastian," he tells John, just before closing the door behind him.  
John does not remember sleeping that night. He knows he must have, for he wakes up with a feeling somewhat akin to a hangover and the early glow of daylight in his face. There's the smell of coffee as well, and the buzz of a distant voice. Once changed into fresh clothes - there's a full selection in the wardrobe, all in his size and preferred styles - he exits to the kitchen.  
"-committed suicide yesterday, jumping off the roof of a London hospital. The detective was recently exposed as a fraud, and it is believe that it is this that drove him to take his own life, after killing the man who exposed him. That man was Richard Brooke, whose corpse was found on the roof shortly after Holmes' suicide.  
There is no searing pain. There really should be. John thinks this instead of hearing the rest of the news, or the words he can see Sebastian's mouth forming. Sherlock's picture flashes on the telly, and then a clip of Lestrade, speaking without sending words to John's ears, in front of Scotland Yard.  
"This is why you took me."  
Sebastian stops talking, and looks at John with as much confusion as a man trained in keeping emotions off his face could. "You took me, because you knew I'd stop him." When Sebastian moved to stand up, opened his mouth to say something, John's fist flies. The crack of knuckles meeting flesh and the break of bone sounds good, feels good. He does it again. "You kept me from him, so Jim could win his little game." Sebastian has blood running down his face, his nose cracked in multiple spots, his cheek split open, but he just stands there and lets John connect with his face for a third time. "He's won now. Moriarty won, Sherlock's dead, they're both dead. Dead, dead, dead. Does that make you happy. He's dead!"  
He only stops when his arm tires. His hand is a mess too now, and probably some of the blood decorating it is his own. Sebastian is still standing, but John thinks that it's from habit frather than an actual ability to keep himself upright. He doesn't look confused now, just blank, like a robot waiting for instructions on how to react.  
"Got that out of your system, then?"  
John turns on his heels and marches back to his bedroom.  
When he comes out several hours later, it's to a Sebastian who has cleaned his face, bandaged his nose and is laying out a variety of knives out on the table. He looks up when John opens the bedroom door. "Watson. Try to avoid my face this time, eh? I just got this break fixed."  
John can't quite manage a smile, but he feels the urge to do so tugging at his lips. "I'll keep that in mind."  
For the next three days, they survive in a careful peace. Sebastian spends his time either in the gym working out or cleaning a seemingly unending supply of weapons the kitchen table. John follows the breakdown of Sherlock's career on the television, and sleeps through mores of the day than he has since coming home from Afghanistan.  
The first day he wakes up to Sebastian sitting at the table without a weapon in sight he feels the matching twist of anxiety in his stomach. When he has his back to the man and his hand reaching for the fridge door, he hears Sebastian get up from his chair. John waits, and the footsteps approach, soft and slow. He turns around, a carton of orange juice his only defense against the man he knows will have no problems, no issue, moral or otherwise, with killing him.  
He is met by Sebastian's open pam, and a wry smile on the taller man's face. "Take care, Watson."  
His eyes fixate on that hand, and waits far longer than he should need to to put the orange juice down on the table and shake it. "You leaving then?"  
Sebastian's lips quirk up on one side, a brief moment of honesty. "You're safe enough now. I've got other business to deal with. Jim wouldn't like me keeping you here longer than necessary.  
John frowns, his left hand clenching into a fist without any direction from his braid. "We weren't bonded. Soul loss wasn't an issue. Jim knew that; why did he have you bring me here?"  
All traces of humour drop off Sebastian's face. "I don't think he particularly wanted you to know, Watson."  
"Well, he's dead, so what he wanted doesn't matter much."  
He never gets a response to that, just the press of a set of car keys into his chest and the sight of Sebastian's' retreating back as the man climbs into the driver's seat of the car waiting in the driveway. The beep of the car alarm button leads John to the other vehicle waiting in the garage, and there's a lockbox of mixed bills waiting for him on the passenger seat, more money than he feels like counting.  
He waits another two days before driving back to London.  
Mycroft is waiting for him in the living room of the flat, looking as if he has not slept since the two of them last spoke. "Ah, the good Doctor returns. I had wondered."  
"Mycroft."  
They talk; or rather, Mycroft questions and John grunts. Even the arrival of Mrs. Hudson and her grief does not serve to warm the temperature of the room. Mycroft wants to know who took John, if he has any knowledge of Moriarty's web, what he was told about Sherlock's death. He still only gives grunts in reply.  
The first words he speak are as Mycroft is opening the flat door once more, leaving with his umbrella hooked over his ar.  
"Have they buried him yet?"  
"We cremated him. Mother thought you should choose the date."  
"I meant Jim," John says softly, his eyes on Mycroft's face.  
"Ah;" the reply is delicate, coming with a croked eyebrow and a disapointed shimmer to the older man's eyes. "I believe the funeral for Richard Brook is being held tomorrow. Good day, Doctor Watson."  
He goes. Of course he goes. There's quite a crowd outside the little church, but he says his name to the security guard and is brought right into the sanctuary.He sits at the back of the small room without saying a word to anyone else or them saying a word to him. As the pastor starts the service a large form slips into the seat next to John. He doesn't even have to look over to say, "Sebastian."  
"Watson."  
Then they're both standing at the fresh grave, looking at the simple headstone with the wrong name on it, the wrong dates and the wrong sentiment in the quote beneath them.  
"I'd hoped it would be me." Sebastian breaks the silence with the low cant of his voice, the edge to his words like he's holding back tears that makes John too conscious to look up and see if he's right. "All those years, watching him work, thought one day he'd look back and it would be me." And John already knew this. Somehow, in the strange maze of the past week, he knew this. Knew the truth that Sebastian says now to a false headstone. "And then he came from that night just grinning, and it was you instead of me."  
"I understand if you hate me."  
John is still staring down at the headstone, still trying to believe that it's Jim buried there when the pressure comes down on his shoulder. Sebastian's hand catches him unprepared; he's grabbed by his shoulder and spun around. Before he can defend himself, Sebastian's face is close enough to feel the exchange of breath and there's hot air against his lips and he can see his own face reflected in Sebastian's eyes. And then their lips are meeting. It's not a kiss but something close to it, all rough passion with just enough tenderness to keep John from pulling away. A quiet part of him, one he hasn't heard in so long, is pleased with the twist in his gut at the feeling of Sebastian's tongue against his.  
Sebastian breaks it off as quickly as he started it, shoulders heaving. "Take care of yourself, Watson. I really do mean it."  
And when John is alone in front of Richard Brooke's grave, he closes his eyes, gathers his breath and gently pushes into the blackness of of his mind. Jim, he calls quietly and then even softer, please, and the name that had entered his mind that night so long ago.  
He thinks, just maybe, the darkness answers back.


End file.
